Darling Erudite Reader,

Please peruse this morbidly non-remunerative critique at your own risk.  Authoritarian oppression poses an imminent danger as demonstrated by my computer software auto-correcting Witchfork to the name of a mainstream endorsed publication multiple times. Though frightened, I will soldier on with this missive. I crouch at the kitchen table in my basement studio apartment certain that Witchfork, which is lauded as the “least trusted voice in music”, will leap at the opportunity to publish this review if only in the interest of self idolatry.

Here in the subterranean darkness, I valiantly defy the encroaching forces of mold, consumerism and commercialism.  One look at myself, Wary McShlubbins, and you will realize that my resistance is as complete as it is courageous. From my ancient gray jumper to my copious nose and ear hair, it is obvious that other than my weekly sojourn for tinned fish, pears, chocolate, Cup O’ Noodles and rice, I have never witnessed a TikTok grooming video nor purchased anything but an occasional vintage tome since the turn of the century.  

Thus is the recently impoverished existence of a lowly critic in the Post Enlightenment boondoggle that that we are currently enveloped in.  I will call it The Age of Misapprehension — perhaps willful misapprehension to be more precise. A. G. Cook, the notorious freebooter of pop fetishism, is fully embracing our collective odyssey into a retro dark ages, rife with the resurgence of mythological creatures and fantastical happenings — ye olde gods and monsters have not forsaken humanity and humanity has lamentably not forsaken thee!  

The cleverly curated Witchfork Music Festival demonstrates Cook’s brilliant prognostications concerning the evolution of this new world.  The festival is a musical odyssey representing our journey into troubled times. 

The jamboree commences with the acoustic performance of Avery Tucker, a glorious bard, who has wandered into a green meadow with his guitar.  He is the soulful heart at the beginning of our journey — a musical everyman. We gladly succumb to his acoustic embrace.  We will follow him trustingly.  

Next we are soothed into a pastoral soundscape interwoven with the ethereal vocals of HANA.  It is as if ancient runes are being sung and carrying us into deep water where a rip tide pulls us into a psychical soup of uncertainty.

Following this essential helplessness, the concertgoer is washed into the marvelous vortex of Peter Talisman whose shifting sounds and accompanying imagery evoke the memories which reverberate in our psyches, propelling us on our life journey in ways we cannot predict. 

Then Loraine James provides festival goers with the heart beat of the cityscape. Electronic propulsion disorients us, then lulls us, then disorients us again.  She replicates our uneasy march toward an unknown fate.

Even Loraine James’ foreshadowing fails to prepare festival goers to greet the mystery of Witch Post.  Are they elven or perhaps wee faerie folk?  It is impossible to discern, though their pale skin and midnight hair evoke the cosmic harmony of light and darkness. The magical voices of these contradictive twins dart, flit, entwine and moan through the misty forests of our unconscious. They are our ushers into the worldly resurgence of mythic creatures. 

Into this transcendent portal appears Babymorocco, with his Satyr headdress — could he be channeling Pan or even Mr. Tumnus?. I experience a kind of whiskery kinship as he roils the festival goers with his deliciously thrumming house music. He and his mesmerizing collaborator, Ikeda, remind us of our humanity and accompanying carnal desires.

And then…Victauria, the centaur, takes the main stage.  What can I even say about her feminine yet portentous hoofbeats?  Her mesmerizing and unearthly vocals lure us into a world where there is no ordinance, rule or law.  She is alluring, playful and then somehow baneful.  She bestows us with musical kisses and then lyrically destroys us.   

Like Dante’s infernal centaur guardians, Victauria is the egress into A. G. Cooks unpredictable new epoch.  It is a fiery mythological pop phantasmagoria, which overwhelms the stage with explosive guitar, the naive exuberance of the industrial revolution and the seething betrayal of when Dylan went electric.  A. G.’s set anticipates our descent into Darker Ages. He foretells of the pageantry, the tribalism, the fatal duels, the peculiar beliefs, the superstition and the wanton conspiracies that shall soon attend our society.  In the glorious tradition of rock and roll we are reminded that the underworld of human inclinations has subsumed us — the arc of humanity has crested and we are on a downward slide into the abyss. 

Needless to say, the hallmark of this downward trajectory is the death of the once wildly prosperous, lauded and adored position of critic. Once we critics strode through the streets, amongst the rose petals and adulation of the masses. We received a hearty welcome into every home, business, concert hall and studio.  We were appealed to for our brilliantly wrought and specialized opinions.  Our words were precious pearls that we bestowed allowing the public to base their choices of entertainment solely on our expert discernment.  People did not harbor anxiety or opinion about what was good or bad and artists of all kinds were grateful to rely on the critic’s viewpoint as the touchstone which properly valuated, influenced and shaped their artistic practices.  

The role of the critic as Intercessor, spoon-feeding taste to the masses has been eliminated. Now sovereign corporations possess publications into which they install critics.  These sham critics concoct favorable reviews of music, film or television products as tallage for their livelihood.  Thus Art, the rarified lady that she is, suffers tragically as palatability and salability grasp the sceptre of taste!  

I, Wary McShlubbins, former critic extraordinaire and longtime champion of the liberal Arts, will proudly die upon the sword of true critical amplitude. I will not be bought, at least not until the final dwindling of my family trust. If you seek me, BEWARE!  For you shall find me banished and forever ensconced in a yawning sepulchre, cushioned on a bed of reasoned opinions, academic expertise and brilliant ephemera.  Adieu.